People Grow Tired

about a lonely man

They'd been together for some, had two kids and a cat. How long had it been? Ten, eleven years? Didn't matter. Still doesn’t matter. What had been done was done, what had been said was said. It had been such a long time too, to remember what exactly had been said. Words, along with events, had always been capable of altering themselves in time in your memory. He must have told the story twelve different times in thirteen different ways. Better or worse than what had originally went down, didn’t matter. Still doesn’t. He still didn't drink, he still didn't smoke, save for breathing under the other lads’ smoke. He still didn't drive or ride. It was fine, really. It hadn't been like that before but you know, it’s whatever. 

They'd been together for some; there was a bond between good and evil they could not break. Good gave in too easily, and evil was contagious. Blood smelled horrible but it looked gorgeous. Yeah, they’d been together for some. He had two kids and a cat. How long had it been? Eight, nine years? Doesn't matter. The wife had left, good thing she had, very good thing she had. She’d taken the kids but left the cat. Good decision she’d made. The cat had a way with his anger, she was good. She was calming. Good thing, she was. 

He still didn't smoke, he still didn't drink, he still didn’t laugh or cry. Sincerity had become a necessity to survive, so, he didn’t try to put on a face. It hadn’t been that long since he had last smiled. The cat had an air of concern and sensitivity for his emotions. That, had been making him smile. She was always very calm, and she would never touch a drop of blood but wouldn’t look away either. Good thing the wife had left, in all honesty. She would always get her hands dirty and try to wipe away the blood from the kitchen sink or the bathroom floor but all she’d managed to do was to smear it further. The smell would get twice as bad. The bedroom walls had been stained for what, seven, eight years? He didn’t know. All he knew was he still couldn't drink or smoke, drive or ride, laugh or cry, and he still wouldn’t dare touch the front gate of the house. Other lads had stopped trying to encourage him to do it, too. People grow tired, you know. It doesn’t matter. At least the kids called once or twice a week, and they would bring him flowers that they picked themselves sometimes, and for a little while, the smell and smoke in his head would subside. He didn't know for how long they would keep picking flowers for him. People grow tired, you know. With or without hope, kids grow up. Flowers rot. 

Author's Note

thank you for reading! let me know what you think & if you find any grammatical errors, do let me know!

Reviews

[J.P O'Callaghan]

Great story my friend! It flowed well and I was drawn to the page from top to bottom.

I loved the repetition of "Eight, Nine years? Doesn't matter." It really fits the mood of the story as people grow tired.

Loved the ending too. Felt powerful and left me to think. Overall a good short story. Keep it up!

[redalia]

thank you for your constructive review! i'm happy to hear you like the story, i'm not the best at writing short stories but i'm trying to get better at it.
a good ending is crucial, and i'm sure making a reader think is what every writer wants!

[Glennise Ayuk]

This is a very poetic piece of prose. You persistently deliver the msg, but without making the repetition boring.
"Kids grow up, flowers rot"
That left me with a reminder that nothing lasts forever, nothing stays the same.
You're great at this!

[redalia]

repetition serves well in this kind of prose i think. thank you for reading and letting me know what you think! also thanks for the compliment!